Part Three: The Pirate Mage
by L.Marks
Summary: Pirates! Dragons! O My! We have new OC's in the works. Meet: charming pirates, dangerous Dragons (other than Merlin and Morgana), unscrupulous kings, and - The First Dark One. Third in a series of Prequels to First Curse of Storybrooke, which is also a work currently in progress. This fic is just a gift that keeps on giving. Definitely appearing: Ursula, Flynn, Agatha, and Sinbad
1. Please

_The Captain was examining the prisoners aboard his ship. Some would be pressed to join his crew, some he had no use for. He strode the length of the deck in front of them, threatening every one with certain death. The speech was mechanical, memorised, and convincingly delivered. And then it was completely derailed._

 _Some of the more wealthy passengers offered him riches, bribes to spare their lives. Those he ignored. Then at the far end of the line someone said to him, "Please don't kill me."_

The Captain stopped short. _Please_ , he thought. That had to be a new one. It wasn't a bribe, it wasn't begging. It was just a calm and quiet "please". It wasn't hard to find the face of the man who had uttered it: calm and quiet and earnest as the voice had been, there stood a young strong man - a capable sailor too, by the look of him.

"And what," the Captain asked dryly, "is so important, that I should let you live?"

Merlin had little time to draw any conclusion about the Captain. But he could see that he was withdrawn from his crew a little beyond the distance any ordinary pirate captain could keep. His brow bore the stamp of books, and his features, though dried and browned and salted by the sea, were hard and silent. This was not the face of a madman, this was not the face of a captain who kept his crew in line with fear. This was the face of a man who could have been an Admiral, a warrior at the command of a King, but who had instead chosen piracy out of necessity. Or, perhaps, as his deep detached eyes seemed to hint, out of deadened grief and despair.

So Merlin acted on instinct.

With an iron grip he wrenched Zayir forward from the line of prisoners and deftly brought him to his knees before the _Revenge's_ stoic Captain. "This man stole from me the woman I loved," Merlin said, "to sell her as a slave. The ship was caught in a storm and ran aground, where we were greeted by the King of Thieves, who let the slaves go and kept the crew. That night, I escaped, but he threatened me and forced me to take him to a ship. And now that ship is in your hands."

The Captain looked down at Zayir curiously. "Your luck's turned, finally," he said. "But that does not explain why I should let you live," he added to Merlin.

Merlin bowed his head slightly. "The woman I love, she is coming for me. She is coming, and she will find me. And when she does, you will find a Dragon's wrath upon your head, should any harm befall me."

"And you don't doubt her for an instant?" the Captain asked.

"Not one."

Impressed by the young man's conviction, the Captain nevertheless simply shrugged and waved his first mate over. "What is your name?" he asked at last.

"Merlin."

"Merlin. Very well. We have no use for a slave trader here, so you, Zayir, will walk the plank. Enjoy the company of razor-toothed sharks, I'm sure you'll have plenty to talk about. You, Merlin - into my cabin. And the rest of these imbeciles you may put to work swabbing the decks," he added to the first mate under his breath as he followed the young Dragon.

"So, your True Love is looking for you, eh?" he asked cynically, closing the cabin door behind him.

"Not looking," Merlin said simply. "Coming."

"Coming for you, then. Very well. You seem an able sailor. Perhaps you wouldn't mind filling the days as you wait for her."

"I would not presume to trespass upon your hospitality," Merlin replied with a polite bow.

"My, such manners before a mangy old sea dog," the Captain remarked with surprise.

"A legend as old as your own commands some respect," Merlin said slyly, "though if you would permit me a remark on your age - you are not so old as the stories would lead the world to believe."

The Dread Pirate Roberts eyed him coldly for a moment, then gave up the game with a goodnatured chuckle.

"Old Dread Pirate Roberts' bones would rattle in his grave with hearty laughter, to think that people have been fooled into imagining his spirit yet lives on at the helm of this ship. An undead captain of a godless crew - what do you think of that?"

"Anything is possible on these waters," Merlin muttered grimly.

"True. But Roberts' legend was woven by man, and not by Magic - of that I can assure you. The sea has its own rules. For a single man's spirit to persist so long, he would have had to commit an unspeakable crime."

"So you are not a cursed man?" Merlin asked, as if he sought only to confirm the notion.

Roberts' smile thinned and dropped. "Depends on the definition, I suppose. Is it not a curse, to be separated from the one you love?"

There was a knock at the door, and almost instantly the ship's cook entered with a dish of rather rich looking dinner. He placed it on the table and shuffled out silently. The captain heaved a sigh as the door closed, and waved Merlin into the seat at the table. He turned to leave, but stopped at the door for a brief moment.

"Do you dream, sailor?" he asked. "Have you the gift of willing certain dreams to come to you? Dream of your love, tonight, for it is likely to be your last. Sleep well, Merlin. I'll most likely kill you in the morning."

As he closed the door behind him, a slight smile played over his features once more.

No use letting the poor fellow relax, after all. He was already too bold with his tongue.

* * *

 _Hello Everybody! I'm back! sort of. for a little bit._

 _I will be updating First Curse of Storybrooke too, and soon, I hope. This prequel just decided to develop somewhat precipitously._


	2. The Renegades

Duban sat quietly in his little corner of the library. He'd carved it out for himself, in the upper levels where he could see the City, see the sprawling expanse below from the mountainsides to the sea. No one ever bothered him here. He loved the height, where he could look at the mountain face and think the snows were right there in front of him, though it was miles to walk to the edge of the City. He could see the approach of storms.

He heard a soft rustle behind him and turned to see who disturbed his hiding place. Duban saw a tall young boy dressed in the Mari family blue and grey - the younger of two brothers, Antonio. He was perhaps a year or two older than Duban, and he seemed to wear his importance emblazoned on his chest.

The Mari were a very prominent family: almost all of them ended up, one way or another, in the Circle of the Wise. Their Magic was the inventive sort: it retained the fluidity of Water, even if they belonged to a different Element. In spite of their different Elemental tendencies, however, they all had a natural affinity for the sea. So many generations of Mari had contributed powerful Dragon Magic to their people - some of the best Healers and most powerful Minevars had risen from that lineage. But this was only a little Mari, Duban decided, and prepared to pay him as little mind as he did his peers.

"What are you doing up here?" the intruder asked, confused. He, too, seemed to expect to find this part of the Library empty, and intended to claim it for his own.

"I come here all the time," Duban replied evenly, with a small shrug. "Most of the books on dreams are here."

The boy's mouth twitched slightly into an ill-concealed, derisive smirk. "You interpret dreams? Prophetic visions?"

Duban shrugged again and closed his book sharply, getting up from his seat. "The Minevar can see the future. That means it's only half a myth."

The older boy, the Mari, nodded, impressed that the little one hadn't been the least concerned by his reaction. A rebel in the making, seeking his own answers to the questions he asked, when no one seemed to have an answer. Antonio liked him instantly.

"Why dreams, though? Surely visions would be more likely?" he asked, stepping closer to the smaller boy.

Duban was short for his age, and showed few signs of Magic. A loner by nature, he was ill-disposed to playing with the other children of his age, or even older, and so his observable skills progressed very little. Yet he read voraciously, and often managed to get books to communicate with him, showing him illusions of smoke and light and shadows and sometimes even music and scents. He did not attribute this to any great skill of his own, but in that he was mistaken - it takes a great Dragon to see and hear a book.

"Dragons prefer that which can be proven and grasped, even in Magic," Duban replied at once, flipping through the pages before him. "They tend to let down their guard when it comes to dreams because dreams can be ignored. So too with visions - they are dismissed as hallucinations. And any premonition that proves true in this manner is seen as a connection made in hindsight."

Antonio nodded. "So you want to know what makes the Minevar different."

Duban hadn't thought of it that way. It was a bold statement, truly. He was more interested in the immediate things - why could the Minevar see the future, but no one else had that gift? Why did the Minevar predict weather accurately one day, proving all the Weatherworkers were wrong, and yet abysmally the next? But there were so many things about the Minevar that were just - different.

"Y-yes," he stammered out at last.

Antonio nodded. "You're not boring. I think I'll sit with you a bit, see how you get on. There's a nice book here, a brief history of Minevars. It's not entirely accurate, from what I can tell, but it has good points."

Duban shrugged. He was not sure that he didn't mind the company, but somehow being alone didn't seem as appealing anymore. This strange boy didn't dismiss him out of hand, at least.

"You're a Mari," Duban said.

The Mari grinned. "Antonio," he said, and held out his hand.

Duban eyed it with a fleeting expression of distrust. Something about this creature was not right, not entirely Dragon-like. He would as soon expect that hand to slap his away as to grasp it in friendly greeting. But then, it would not do to incite a worse reaction. He shrugged and shook it.

"Duban," he muttered.

"Do you always do that?" Antonio asked, tilting his head curiously to one side.

"Do what?"

"Make yourself seem small and unimportant? You shrug before giving your name as if it meant nothing. _Duban_ is an old Dragon name has always been associated with loyalty and a quiet, but unmatched power. It deserves respect."

Duban laughed. "You smirk at the interpretation of dreams, yet you rely on the traits matched with Dragon names to judge a person?"

Antonio gave a crooked smile. "Hardly. But qualities that follow names are like Dragon Legends - by some inexplicable rule, they so often turn out to be true."

Duban considered for a moment, retaking his seat at the window. "Dragon Magic has been woven into our language. You're suggesting that it follows us even in name," he turned the words over in the air, mulling over the idea.

Antonio nodded, and sat down beside him, crosslegged. "Isn't it frightening, to be so controlled by something we did not even choose? We cannot even escape this influence by taking names from other lands, for each fundamental syllable that has any meaning in our language carries some kind of prognosis of our fate. We can even create new names to shape that fate, all because our very language carries power. It's insidious. Imagine if there were a flaw, any kind of flaw, in one Dragon that could poison us all."

Duban smiled. "Oh, I doubt it. There are, after all, exceptions to all of these rules. Like me: I have no Magic. So you see, however loyal I may be, I cannot possibly be an unmatched power."

Antonio turned to him in surprise. "Well that can't be true."

"It is. I have no idea how to do what any of them do -" he gestured down below at a training platform, where children his age were practicing their tricks - flying, somersaulting, transfiguring, playing with fire.

"But you can read that book," Antonio pointed out, looking at the volume that lay open in front of the boy.

Duban scoffed. "Anyone can read a book."

"No. It's not written in any language that I've ever seen," Antonio said, quite honestly.

Duban was sure he was poking fun at him, but when he looked down at the page again - just to check, just to make sure he wasn't losing his mind - it appeared to him covered in neat little hieroglyphs that he'd never seen before in his life. And just as quickly as these hieroglyphics had appeared, they resolved themselves into readable text and images again. Stunned, he stared wide-eyed at the book for a long moment as a wide, utterly mad grin spread over Antonio's features.

"There you go. You do have some Magic after all," he said.

* * *

From then on, the two were inseparable. Antonio propelled Duban into the world of Healing and Rune Magic, bringing him tome upon tome of 'light reading', dragging him halfway across the City to show him the ancient chambers and the bones of the buildings. The walls were covered in masterful paintings that depicted the City's rather idyllic surroundings, and the land it had been built upon, but only in the central chambers: the further outside the boys went, the more fantastical these murals became, from changing colours to abstract shapes, blots of paint that seemed to hint at the landscape, as if the painter's eyes beheld it unfocused. The murals seemed to hint at Magical protections laid over Dragon Lands and near the walls.

Neither Antonio nor Duban could make heads or tails of it at first. But then, after their first long trek through the underground, they reemerged and Duban cried out in astonishment. He could see all of those layers, every single network and spell that hung over the City and ran through its lands. He was learning to actually _see_ that Magic, even if he could not master it in practice.

For a long time, Antonio had suspected that Duban's Element was Earth: the slow, invisible, underground silence and mystical power of Earth seemed to correspond with the stubbornly slow evolution of Duban's gift. But now he could not pin it down at all. Earth was Antonio's own natural Element, which set him apart from most of his family. One might still meet the odd fiery Mari, or even an Air Elemental who whipped winds over the sea and stirred up unholy tempests, but Earth was rare. Earth lay far below the sea, dark and unknowable. For a time, Antonio thought his friend's Element might even be air, but Duban's gifts defied explanation.

Antonio also shared his friend's inability to work even the simplest of Dragon Magic - the shared Magic that, theoretically, bound all of their people, seemed to have rejected them both. They were still bound by the rules of the language, which did not allow them to lie, and yet they could not master even spoken spells. Runes, at least, were considered an independent form, more primitive than language, and more primally powerful. Duban and Antonio had mastered these 'wild glyphs', as Diban called them, and could use them with an enviable subtlety and precision.

But their failure to master the Dragon Magic made them, willing or no, a pair of Renegades. Antonio was proud to declare himself as one: he ached to break free of the control Dragon language and tradition had over him. He left the City as soon as he came of age, to travel the world and learn from other mages. He returned every few months, showing Duban the many things he had learned while abroad, showing off his skills and spitefully spurning every single Dragon rule.

When it came to declaring himself a Renegade, however, Duban showed just how unlike his friend he was. He remained in the City, pursuing his talents in whatever ways he could, hiding his failures. The fact that he could not practice Dragon Magic also, unfortunately, meant that he could not share his discoveries directly. But he soon discovered that he would prefer not to share much of what he'd learned, for his gifts often took him to dangerous territories. He knew, for example, the surest way to kill one of his brethren, and that was a secret he sealed in his mind in horror.

There were, admittedly, many ways to destroy Dragonkind. But not in Dragon form - in the form of that great scaly beast that had already made its indelible imprint in history.

The whole point of turning into a large, firebreathing, reptilian beast, had of course been self-preservation. The first one ever conjured had been a fanciful shape, brought to life by a Fire Master. In those days, an army of men prepared to storm the gate of the great Dragon City, barrelling down the mountainside after passing through the heavily snow-covered peaks above. They were hungry and cold, and murderous, and the City and some of the outer farming lands seemed inviting enough. The Fire Master conjured a fearsome shape of flames and sent it at them, more to frighten than to kill. Apparently he'd succeeded in killing a small number with fright.

Not long after that, this shape became a useful defense. The Dragons realised that for all their wisdom, they were still creatures of flesh and blood among men, and bodies of flesh and bone were delicate things. This being that they created had a body of Magic, scale hard as stone and smooth as metal, layered like armour over flesh that was in itself still Magic - all impervious to any weapon, and defensive.

Every single Elemental contributed to its final form: the Earth Masters gave it shape and strength and the Air Masters gave it flight. Water Masters were least credited, and unfairly so. They gave this creature the blood that flowed through its veins, the organs that allowed it to breathe and eat and think. Most importantly, Water Elementals were the ones who made it possible for a Dragon to transform into this creature, rather than simply conjure it as a pet for their protection.

And Duban, with his remarkable insight, without ever having been able to take that form, except once he'd dissected the contribution that every Element had made and learned to replicate it - _he_ had discovered a way to destroy it with a single blow.

He had locked it away as quickly as he had realised what his discovery was. But somehow, though his set of mind had always been inscrutable to others, on that very day the Minevar appeared on his doorstep. Duban had long stood in awe of the great Mage, whom most thought to be a little mad. Antonio had always been distrustful of the _Eldest_ , who seemed to know so much more than any of his people, and kept much of his knowledge from them. But the Minevar sat with Duban almost every day, and the two had long conversations as the Renegade Healer worked. Together they mulled over his potions and intricate spells was he fabricated them. The Minevar was the only Dragon who could teach Duban, and the Minevar was only Dragon whom Duban trusted to learn from him.

"'Renegade' is a rather poor name for your kind," the Minevar once remarked, ruefully shaking his head.

"What 'kind' is that?" Duban asked impassively, as he ground a dry root to a brown powder.

"Those who cannot master Dragon Magic. Those who find it difficult to connect to all other Dragons. It's not so rare, after all. If anything, true mastery of Dragon Magic is far more uncommon."

"Then why," Duban crushed another root meditatively, then picked up the pestle again and ground the bits, "are we called Renegades?"

"Because many Dragons who cannot share their Magic also find it difficult to sympathise with others. Most Dragons can hear emotions or misgivings in each other's words, but you've never been able to. Your friend Antonio cannot. But you are also a Healer, and that is very rare for a Renegade, almost impossible. You are not incapable of sympathy, then - you simply understand it in a different way."

Duban looked up at the old Dragon, who appeared to him more sane and sombre than he'd ever known him to be. "Can you hear my thoughts, Minevar?"

He smiled thoughtfully, closing his eyes. "You have a melody all your own, my friend, quietly delighting in its unique existence, relishing its loneliness. It's very beautiful, and so unlike the rest of this City. Perhaps I've composed it for you. But in the end, I'm not so sure that matters."

Not long after, Antonio returned to the City. It was a time of great unease for Duban, who sensed that his friend had changed a great deal. For the last few years, whenever Duban had seen him, he seemed never quite all present. The better part of his mind remained submerged as he easily charmed people with his usual poise and politeness, and Duban sensed it only because he knew him best.

Antonio's awesome power was largely occupied with a something else, something that required constant attention. Something that, Duban suspected, he continued to control even when he was far away from the City. He tried to trace the line of that Magic once, and found that it ran deep into the earth itself, into the bedrock below, under the City.

Something far below their feet was beginning to shift. And in the West, Avalon was looming up more grey and threatening than ever before. It was a period of unease, unrest - an uncomfortable lull before a war.

* * *

The War with Avalon was a brief flash of a struggle sparked by a terrible misunderstanding, the origin of which no one was ever quite able to trace. Avalonians were as peaceful as Dragons in principle - a trait which certainly helped quell the fury as quickly as it had arisen. But in that brief match of wits and wills, it became apparent that neither could take the other by force. In their first attack against the Dragon City, the Avalonians cut quickly and decisively. The Dragons barely had time to sound an alarm, for their enemy had approached stealthily, and unexpectedly penetrated the defenses at the City's edge. Out of a thousand of Dragons, only several hundred rose into the sky. And out of those hundreds, more than half fell back to the earth in a brilliant rain of diamonds. It was the traditional Avalonian burial process: taking magic from a dying mage to strengthen their own defense, converting the body into a jewel imprinted with the dead sorcerer's memories.

Their very traditions, weaponised, nearly decimated the Dragon population in minutes. But the Avalonians lost much of their humbling attack force in mere seconds, as a sudden pulse of the Dragon Magic rose - not from the shell-shocked citizens - but from the City itself. Around the land-bound Avalonians, who had no notion of flight, the ancient architecture buckled and contorted into a foggy unstable maze. Walls faded in and out of solid existence, moved, grew, shrank, folded, twisted, turned.

And then the Dragons recovered.

They turned the Elements to their advantage. Air ripped through the maze, Water flooded the streets, Fire blazed where the other Elements could not reach. Then the Earth gaped open and swallowed the surviving number, burying them deep below, where Water took over in its underground Kingdom and shunted them out, back to the mountain passes that separated the Dragon City from Avalon.

By design, most survived the expulsion. "Go and tell your people what you saw here," the Dragons seemed to say.

The battles that followed were less a fight for dominance than a brutal match in which very few lost lives. It was a test, a measure of the other's stature. Avalonians and Dragons plumbed the depths of each other's knowledge and capability, and concluded that their opponent adapted at an equal, unhurried rate. The very first match had shown that their attacks could be uncompromisingly lethal, and at any moment the possibility of ending the conflict once and for all was never out of sight.

These were two civilisations of a massive stature, as yet having had no real contact. They took a cold and calculated approach to this meeting of minds, resolved it quickly, then descended into a peace where they learned from each other instead.

A lightning quick conflict such as this, however, rarely bodes well for quick and ready peace. In the few years that the war had flared, some Avalonians had discovered a new niche. These were the Dragonslayers: trained to kill the unkillable, to trick the unwary and manipulate the uncertain, to exploit the Dragons' unwillingness to kill. Though in the same breath Dragons adapted to these attackers quite successfully, they were ill-equipped to defend themselves against this kind of attack. Dragonslayers were almost always nomadic, solitary hunters. Foreigners passed through the Dragon City generally unquestioned, and these Dragonslayers had an uncanny knack for hiding their Magic.

Some Dragonslayers were a more inventive sort, preferring to create things that would arm them against their opponent. Objects that sapped victims of their magic appeared in this time - dangerous things that both Avalonians and Dragons sought to destroy, for, as it turned out, some Dragonslayers had turned against their own. Unlike Dragons, they were not bound by a single force that prevented them from killing each other. The Dragonslayers became a common enemy, thereby finally ushering in an era of alliance, though flecked with incomplete trust.

With the end of the war, the City seemed to breathe a sigh of relief. But the Minevar remained as grim as ever: he was watching Duban, and Duban's apprehensive expression never changed. Somewhere below their feet, drawing ever nearer to the surface, a new catastrophe was coming to the City.

Many possible futures unfolded before the Minevar, each more confounding than the last. He began to look to the South, to what had once been the Empire of the Golden Brothers. The grandsons of Salman and Agib were nowhere near as open to the Dragons as their forefathers had been. In an unprecedented, seemingly irrational action, the Minevar cut trade with them and watched the Empire fall apart. He was setting up an escape route from an unknown, as yet unformed danger, for all his people, based on his faith in one Renegade.


End file.
